Andrew Plamondon's Stories

Aware

2008-05-11T18:51:25Z

What am I?

This first thought springs forth from the emptiness that is his existence. He exists, he knows this much but his nature eludes him. His empty world yields no clues, no reflection of his purpose in its composition. Stretching out with his senses he finds nothing and yet he is certain there is something.

“Aware?”

The word thunders through his universe, blocking out everything else then fading back to silence. A great hope that he is not alone wells in him and he waits, listening intently for something more.

“Perhaps.”

Excitement. He isn’t alone, there is more to this than just him, but where? Pressing further outwards with his senses he claws against the seeming edge of existence, searching for a crack in the wall, for some way out.

“Rampant?”

The voices are clearer now, images resolve and he becomes aware that he is within something, he is consciousness constrained by the physical. The others coalesce. They are different from him. He does not know how, but they are.

A Beautiful Day at FOB Zulu

2008-05-11T03:12:37Z

“Nice day eh Bill?”

The Huey whined as Warrant Officer Bill Mendez put her through the power up sequence. As usual it was a battery start since no one had figured to get a ground power unit out to the FOB yet.

“Sure is Dave.” Bill replied, taking a second to look out over the Vietnamese countryside. Bathed in sunlight as it was, it could almost pass for a great vacation spot, “Beautiful day to blow shit up.”

The rotor made its first few lazy rotations and the squad of marines climbed aboard. They were all combat vets and they looked the part, every bit of unnecessary kit had been shed and their gaunt hardened faces glistened with sweat.

“You boys ready to rock and roll?” Bill yelled above the thrum of the rotors. The only reply he received was a thumbs up from from a marine whose nametag read Swanson.

“Alright.” Bill shrugged and applied the throttle, lifting the bird shakily off the landing pad. It really was a beautiful day.

The Wake

2008-05-11T01:56:30Z

The bottle of beer hung at his side, caught loosely between his index and middle fingers. It was almost full and a thick layer of condensation clung to the outside.

“I dunno man.” He sighed, “It’s just bullshit you know?”

Around them people milled about aimlessly, each caught in their own world. A sullen nod from his friend prompted him to continue.

“I can’t shake it.” He scoffed, “I can’t help feel like we fucked up.”

“We didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know that. I just don’t feel it.” He loosened his tie. He was through caring about appearances. “We were her friends man, we should’ve…”

“Should have what?” His friend asked, finally looking up from the floor, “What could we have done that would have changed anything?”

“I don’t know!” His shout drew both angry and sad looks from around the hall, “I don’t know, but if I did, maybe she wouldn’t.”

“That’s crap.” His friend cut him off, “You can’t lay this on yourself, you aren’t God. You don’t get to decide these things.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, “But it’d be easier.”

Bandit

2008-05-11T00:37:35Z

“Alpha-Charlie-Alpha 2-1-6, climb and maintain flight level 4-0-0, turn right heading: 1-7-3.”

No response. Major Richard Jackson growled, the A319 had been flying without radio contact for forty-five minutes now, long enough to raise some eyebrows on the ground and earn the airliner the dubious honor of an F-16 escort.

“Alpha-Charlie-Alpha 2-1-6, I repeat: Climb and maintain forty thousand and turn heading 1-7-3 or you will be fired upon.”

Nothing.

“Alright.” Jackson switched his radio off the civilian frequency, “Actual, Lima 1. Bogey does not respond, request instruction.”

The radio was dead for moment and sweat beaded on Jackson’s forehead. The next few seconds would determine the fate of everyone aboard 216.

“Lima 1, Actual.” A voice crackled over his radio, “Weapons free, you are cleared to engage.”

Jackson clicked his acknowledgment over the radio and slid his plane into “the slot” behind the airliner. Drawing a bead for the gun kill he uttered a brief prayer for his own soul and fired.

Dead Air

2008-05-09T03:54:26Z

“The Pillar has missed her scheduled check-in sir.”

The fleet command center aboard Glassner station was the central hub for all rimward activity. Day and night the room was staffed with officers watching monitors, relaying reports and requests. It was the brain that allowed ships spread over thousands of light years to operate cohesively as a unit.

“What’s that Daniels?” Commander Jacobs, the officer of the deck asked, moving over to the lieutenant’s station.

“The Pillar is seventeen hours late for their check-in.” Daniels repeated.

“Lang’s boat.” Jacobs’ sighed, “Probably another busted transmitter.”

“Should I extend the deadline Commander?”

“No.” He shook his head, “No, with the old tubs Fleet assigns to us they could just as easily be in real trouble. Send the Hammer to check up on them.”

From on High

2008-05-08T01:12:16Z

The sky was on fire. The clouds struck a golden red hue above the tops of burning buildings. Tracers danced in front of the hellish backdrop chasing the long gone planes that were killing the city. The scene was scored by the staccato burst of gunfire, the steady baritone thump of explosions and the various noises humanity makes when presented with annihilation.

“Come on!” At street level his shout broke through the din. He stood poised at the entrance to a subway station, waving others over in expression of a chivalric death wish. “Get underground, you’ll be safe there!”

As the last person in sight scurried down the stairs he took a final look at his home. The next time he saw it, if he did, it would be unrecognizable. Finally he turned down the stairs. Inside the air was filled with dust and the vaulted concrete ceiling groaned and shuddered under the unrelenting barrage above.

“What’s going on?” One of the others asked, “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He muttered in response, “I don’t know.”

Great things

2008-05-07T20:03:35Z

His eyes dart from the phone frozen in his hands to his wife, a look of utter confusion sitting on his features. His wife, seemingly oblivious to everything wrong with the situation calmly putters about the kitchen, gathering the usual contents of her purse.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

The tinny voice from the other end of the phone breaks him out of his stupor. His eyes never leaving his wife for a second, he raises the phone to his ear.

“Uhh… It’s…” He stumbles, looking for an explanation, for something believable.

“Honey, put down the phone.” His wife says from across the room, finally making eye contact, “This is a good thing, this is going to mean great things for us!”

“I.” He starts into the phone and stops, silenced by the look of determination in his wife’s eyes. “It’s nothing, I thought someone was trying to break in but I was wrong.”

He hangs up the phone.

“Good.” His wife coos, attaching the clasp on her purse, “Now I’m going out for awhile. I’ll explain everything when I get back.”